


Break Me Down

by DirtyBrian



Category: Bleach
Genre: Angst, F/M, post-686
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:54:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9577019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirtyBrian/pseuds/DirtyBrian
Summary: Losing Rukia has taught him many things- including how to keep his anger at bay. But just because he keeps it hidden, that doesn't mean it doesn't seep through the cracks sometimes.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sequence_fairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequence_fairy/gifts).



Her absence leaves him bereft.

 

In some ways, it would’ve been easier if she had died. Even as he thinks the words, he hates himself- but that doesn’t make them any less true. Death brings with it a sense of finality, of...if not peace, at least a form of acceptance. Rukia’s departure from his life has brought him none of that healing.

 

When he lost his mother ( _ when she was murdered _ , he corrects bitterly), he’d taken the time to process and handle her death. He’d been able to lean on his family, and they’d worked through their grief together. He realizes now how much he’d relied on that support.

 

Now, he’s alone. The thought hits him one morning as he steps out from the shower, a towel tied loosely around his waist. He looks in the mirror and is struck with how much older he must have looked to Rukia- it’s been more than four years since they first met, and he knows he’s aged far more than that, both in mind and body. His eyes are darker, less innocent, and he’s covered in scars. He’s not the small, defective human that can see spirits any longer. He can’t help but wonder if that’s why she left.

 

Not for the first time, Ichigo considers whether there’s anyone in which he can confide. Certainly not Orihime- she doesn’t deserve his anguish. She deserves better than a broken, hollow man mourning a woman who isn’t dead. She’s been so patient, so good to him so far, and he can’t ask this of her. His family wouldn’t understand, and Ishida is busy with his own problems (the least of which not being Ichigo’s new relationship with Orihime).

 

The only person he could confide in, the only person he  _ wants  _ to talk to is the one who won’t. She’d shut him out so suddenly, so violently, and for reason that he couldn’t begin to fathom.

 

She’d ordered him away, an impressively dispassionate mask settled over her features.  _ I don’t want you anymore _ .  He knew that wasn’t true, had begged her to stay, to reconsider leaving him. But she’d gone. They were too different, it could never work, and she didn’t need him.

 

(“But what if I need you?!” he’d cried, heart in his throat. She left anyway).

 

As he replays the events in his head, turning them over and dissecting each moment into infinitesimal detail, Ichigo finds himself livid. White-hot anger coursed through him- anger at Rukia, anger at himself for letting him go, anger at Renji for getting to be with Rukia and anger at Orihime for loving him. Anger at the entire goddamn universe that brought him this woman and saw fit to tear her away over and over. His throat closes, but he refuses to let himself cry.He won’t let the grief  overcome his fury. The anguish will drown him, but anger keeps him strong, keeps him going.

 

Pain radiates up his arm, and he looks down. His fingers are clutching the sink and his knuckles are white. He releases his grip slowly, grimacing in discomfort. He deserves it, he supposes. He should know better by now than to let his feelings for Rukia overwhelm him.

 

The house is quiet as he pads into the bedroom, Orihime has left for the day already, and he’s alone. Despite his wishes, all the anger drains out of him and he sits heavily on the bed. The silence is oppressive, and he breathes in deeply to keep the panic at bay.

 

(She’d always known how to help on his bad days. She would have made it better. But she’s gone now.)

 

Almost absently, he picks up his phone and thumbs the security key, the bright display harsh against his eyes. On the screen is a stark, white space and a number that’s not saved to his contacts. He shouldn’t even have it. A single message, three words are typed in the text box. They are a plea, an apology...an accusation. He knows he’ll never send them. He doesn’t want to deal with the repercussions. But now, their existence consumes him, the letters burning their shape into his corneas, echoing through his mind in a haunted whisper.

 

_ I miss you. _


End file.
